Facets. Part 17

"Oh." He was getting ready to go out, adjusting his bow tie in the gilt-edged mirror that stood in the front hall. He was in a good mood, looking forward to the evening. Pam had been hoping that might help. "I've decided," he said. "I think you should stay here. Hettie wants some time off, so I'll need Marcy around to cook."

Her heart sank. "Did Hettie say she had to go next week?"

"I said she could go next week."

"Then let me go to Maine the week after."

"She'll be gone for two weeks."

"She never takes two weeks."

"Well, she is this time, and don't look at me that way. Your interests aren't the only ones in this house. Hettie works hard-a lot harder than you do. She deserves the time. Do you honestly think that everyone's schedule should revolve around yours?"

"No, but Hettie is flexible. She doesn't have family. When she takes a vacation, she usually takes a long bus ride to somewhere she's never been. She wouldn't care when she did it."

"Well, I do," He reached for his topcoat. "And she's doing it next week." Opening the front door, he stepped out.

Pam caught it before it shut and called after him, "Can I take a bus?"

"No." He trotted down the steps.

"When will I get to Maine?"

"When I say so," he called and disappeared into a waiting taxi.

That March vacation was the most miserable of Pam's life. Her emotions were raw, made worse by memories of past March breaks. She tried to keep busy. She read a lot, doodled and sketched a lot, and several times she dragged Marcy to the movies with her. Once she went shopping with Hillary, who had been good enough to volunteer when Pam told John that last year's spring clothes didn't fit.

It rained on and off through most of the vacation, so Pam couldn't go out much. She did spend one day under an umbrella window-shopping on Newbury Street. But the best day was the one she spent at the museum. It was peaceful there. Thanks to Patricia's attempts to make her a perfectly cultured young lady, she knew enough about the masters to appreciate their work. For a time, they diverted her mind.

John was out often. Of the fourteen days Hettie was gone, he was home for dinner only five times. Knowing that he could as easily have eaten out those five nights and done without Marcy, Pam was livid. She avoided him when he was at home, fearing repercussions if she vented her anger on him. But the strain built up inside her. She was grateful when the vacation ended and she could immerse herself in school again. Being busy helped. But the pain was still there, deep down inside, and the longing for Timiny Cove went on.

Then John threw a party. It was his first as master of the townhouse and was a coming-out party of sorts. At least, that was what Hillary told Pam in a moment of pique. "He's invited everyone who's anyone. It's his way of announcing that he's a big man now that he's the head of St. George Mining. He's out to impress. Even hired someone to make all the arrangements. I told him I could do it, but he said I didn't know how. Is that fair, Pam? I have good taste, and I'm competent. So I haven't had the experience planning parties. How will I ever get the experience if I don't try it now and again?"

Pam loved Hillary. She couldn't understand why she wanted to hang around John in the first place, but given that she did, Pam hurt for how he treated her. "You'd arrange a great party. I liked what you did on Valentine's Day." Hillary had invited John and a few friends from the Globe to dinner at her small Back Bay apartment. Since one of those friends had asked to bring his daughter, Hillary had insisted that Pam come, too. The apartment looked adorable, the food was delicious, and the fresh flowers that filled the place were arranged with an eye for art-not that John appreciated that, but Pam did and was lavish with praise.

What John had thought of the rest of the party, Pam didn't know. He never shared his feelings about Hillary with her, although she put in good words as often as possible. She liked it when Hillary was around and wouldn't have minded at all if John decided to marry her.

Marriage wasn't the issue then, however. The issue was the party he was throwing, for which he had a.s.signed Hillary the role of pa.s.sing through the crowd making sure that everyone had access to the bar, the wine tray, and the caterer's spread.

Pam was beginning to wonder what her own role would be. She didn't know if she was even invited. John hadn't said anything about buying a new dress, and she would need one, she knew.

A week before the party, he settled the matter in a way that instantly banished all thought of buying a new dress. "I want you and Marcy in Timiny Cove for the weekend. This place will be a madhouse before the party. You'll only be in the way."

The fact that he didn't want her at the party might have hurt if the alternative weren't so welcome. She counted the days until she could leave, spent every free minute thinking of what she was going to do first, and second, and then after that. She didn't share the extent of her excitement with John lest he realize how much it meant to her and cancel the trip out of pure malice. She tiptoed her way around him through the course of that week, trying to be invisible, not giving him the slightest cause for anger.

Between the excitement and the fear, she barely made it through the week. She didn't sleep well, didn't do well in school. On Thursday night, when she felt certain he'd say something, he didn't. He wasn't home when she ran in from school on Friday afternoon, and within thirty minutes she and Marcy had the car packed and were off.

Not until they were out of the city and on the highway headed north did Pam feel safe. She relaxed back in her seat. The excitement was there. Increasingly, though, it wasn't the only feeling. She remembered the last time she'd been north, when they had buried Eugene. So much had happened since, and it all came back-the fear, the grieving, the anger, the worry, the loneliness. By the time she and Marcy arrived in Timiny Cove, she felt choked by it all.

Running into the house, which Deenie kept open and fresh, she dashed to her room and changed into jeans and the old shirt her father had given her to use as a paint smock years before. It wasn't as big on her as it once had been, but under its rainbow of spatters, it was loved. Back downstairs, she took a twill jacket of his from the closet. It smelled old and familiar.

"Pammy?" Marcy joined her in the hall.

"I have to go out."

"Deenie left dinner. I could heat it."

"A little later?" Pam asked. She swallowed against the hurt in her chest. "Maybe you should visit your mom."

"I'll wait here for you."

"Don't, Marcy. I need some time. Visit your mother. I'll feel better that way."

Marcy hesitated. "You sure?"

Pam could only nod. In the next instant, she was out the door and running down the street. It was suppertime in Timiny Cove. Those few people who were still in their yards or on their porches waved as she ran past, but she didn't stop. She ran to vent the anguish she felt inside, ran on and on, not caring that her hair came free of its ribbon or that the ribbon floated to the ground on a gust of evening air. She didn't feel the coolness, didn't feel a thing but the need to keep running and running and running.

By the time she reached Cutter's she was out of breath but no more peaceful than she'd been before. Banging on the door, she yelled, "Cutter?" She waited, panting, never quite standing still, before banging again. "Cutter!"

When he didn't answer, she sat on his front step, pressed herself to the rail post, hugged her knees to her chest, and waited. She didn't consider the possibility that he might be off doing something private and adult on a Friday night, that he might not be back until late, that he might not be back until morning or even the one after that. She just pressed herself to the rail post, hugged her knees to her chest, and waited.

It wasn't long before she heard the roar of his cycle. She stood. He slowed the instant he saw her. Barely taking his eyes from her, he parked the cycle under a shelter by the house. Scooping up a brown paper sack, he came to where she stood. He didn't speak, simply looked, taking in each of her features one at a time, until his eyes met hers.

Pam felt the same choking sensation she'd experienced earlier, the crowd of emotions, so long stifled, now gathered and working their way into her chest and throat. She tried her best to produce a smile, but there was desperation in her high and broken voice. "Take a walk with me, Cutter?"

His fingers grazed her cheek. "You bet." Setting the paper sack on the porch by the door, he took her hand and led her around his cabin and into the woods.

She knew the way well; they'd walked it many times in the past. But she held tight to his hand and let him lead. Only when they reached the stream did she let go, moving to the water's edge, squatting. She felt Cutter's presence beside her. Something about his solidity and his warmth was so genuine, so strong, so like Eugene's that everything she'd tried so hard to keep inside for so very long filled up and overflowed. Tucking her face tight against her knees, she began to cry.

Cutter murmured something, but the sound was lost, just beyond the realm of her misery. Then he put his arms around her and, jacket and all, drew her close to give her the comfort she'd been wanting and needing. He didn't speak, didn't tell her that she shouldn't cry. He hugged her more tightly when the sobs came faster, stroked her hair when they eased, pressed her face to his chest when low, mournful moans came in their stead.

In time, her hands relaxed their grip on his shirt. She sniffled but didn't pull away. With her cheek flush to his chest, she whispered, "I miss him, Cutter. I miss him so much."

He scooped a swirl of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. "I know. I do, too."

She'd guessed that, which was probably why she had needed so badly to see him. "In Boston, there's just this awful emptiness when I think of him." She took a hiccuping breath. "I thought it would be better here, but when we were driving up today, I kept remembering all the times I knew he'd be waiting for me. Then we drove through the center of town, and everywhere I looked he was there. Only he wasn't. The house was just the same, but so different, and I thought I'd die if I didn't find you. I ran through town like I was crazy. That's what people must have thought."

"Nah. They'd never think that. They love you."

"They loved Daddy."

"They miss him, too."

Her thoughts flew back to the day of the funeral, when so many of those people had come out to say goodbye. Remembering their faces, remembering the huge coffin and the way it had disappeared into the ground, she started crying again. "I'm sorry," she whispered between sobs.

"Don't be." He sounded as distressed as she felt. "You need this. So do I. It helps me with all I'm feeling myself."

"You hurt, too?"

"I loved your daddy," he said, and there was a sudden fierceness in his voice. "He did more for me than any other person on this earth ever did. I loved him like I'd'a loved my own daddy if he'd been worth a dime-" His voice broke.

Pam held tighter to him until she felt she was in control, but even then she didn't pull back. Cutter's heartbeat was the most rea.s.suring thing she'd heard in four months.

After a time, he asked about Patricia, and she told him. She also told him about John and how he was in charge of everything, and about Hillary and how good she'd been, and about school and her friends and Marcy. When she asked, Cutter told her about things on the mountain and how they'd tightened under John's command. He told her about her old friends, who was doing what and how.

By that time they were facing each other in the dark, no longer touching but closer than ever. "What are we going to do, Cutter?" she whispered.

"We'll go on. That's what he'd have wanted. We'll go on and do the best we can."

"But it's so hard sometimes. Sometimes I just want to yell and scream, I get so angry. It isn't fair, all that's happened. It isn't fair that Daddy died, or that my mother's in a hospital, or that I'm stuck with John. Life shouldn't be like that."

"But it is, and it's the strong ones who survive. You're a strong one, Pam. You'll do fine."

"But it hurts so."

"I know." He pulled her close for a final minute, before standing and drawing her up. "I'd better give you a ride home."

"We're here for the weekend. Can I see you again?"

"You bet."

They'd gone about halfway back to the cabin when she said, "Daddy loved you, too. He really did."

"I don't know about that."

"He did. He wanted to leave you something in his will. Did you know?"

After a pause, Cutter said, "He mentioned it once. Little Lincoln."

"I don't know what happened." She remembered the argument her father and John had about it. "I heard him tell John and he was so definite. He wouldn't change his mind. Not about that. I think he wished you were his son, not John-and John knows it." She looked up at him. Lit by the moon, his face was all hard, bold angles that should have looked harsh to her, but didn't, couldn't. Cutter was special. "He would be mad as anything if he knew I ran out here first thing."

"Well, you're not gonna tell him," Cutter vowed, looking defiant, "and I sure ain't, so unless he's got spies up here, he won't know. Right?"

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Pam smiled.

She did more smiling that weekend. She saw all of her friends, and while there was always an awareness that someone was missing, being with them was healing.

Being with Cutter was the best part. His life was so different from hers, but somehow he understood what she was feeling and thinking. When she was with the others, she felt well tended and guarded as those people who loved Eugene would guard his daughter, but still there was an element of loneliness. When she was with Cutter, she didn't feel alone.

For that reason, she squeezed every possible trip to Timiny Cove out of John. It turned out to be easier than she had thought it would be and had nothing to do with either kindness or compa.s.sion on John's part. On the weekend of that first party in April, he discovered that he liked having the townhouse to himself, which he told her bluntly. She didn't care. Going to Maine meant the world to her. She was happier there than she could ever have been with John on Beacon Hill.

Cutter was her dearest friend. Sometimes they talked at his cabin or walked through the woods to the stream. Sometimes they went to the mountain he was working so that he could show her through the mines that had been opened since she'd been there last. Sometimes he watched while she doodled with a stick in the dirt or with a pencil on the back of his pay envelope. He kept all her sketches posted on the wall by his bookshelf and was particularly enthralled by those she made of tourmaline in each stage of discovery.

"I'd wear this one in a ring," she told him once, and when he asked what the ring would look like, she drew that, too, then took delight in his appreciation.

She knew of his reputation for toughness, but she saw none of it. She saw his eyes harden when he was angry, saw him grow guarded when he was in town, but in the next breath he'd look at her and everything in him would become gentle. That made her feel special. She liked the exhilaration she felt when she was with him. Like Eugene, he was spontaneous, not programmed. He liked to talk about books he read, or about what Washington was doing to help out the local dairy farmers. He hadn't ever traveled, hadn't ever gone to the theater or the ballet or the opera, didn't own a suit, wasn't thinking of leaving Timiny Cove or moving up in the world. Still he was the most interesting person she knew.

John found out that she saw him, of course. She wasn't sure how, but when he confronted her, she lied. She said that she'd b.u.mped into him by accident, and that it wasn't her fault he happened to be walking along the sidewalk at the same time she was.

John warned her that it wasn't to happen again. She nodded and said that it wouldn't. And her smile was that much wider the next time she arrived in Timiny Cove and went straight to Cutter's cabin in the woods.

Chapter 11.

JOHN'S SPY WAS A MAN NAMED Sylvester Crosey, known to the townsfolk of Timiny Cove for his cat grin and his slyness. He had worked for Eugene until the day he was found doctoring his time charts, when, for the sake of the morale of the others, Eugene let him go. John rehired him in a supervisory position in one of the less productive mines and paid him a salary that far exceeded his position. Once Sylvester grew accustomed to a lifestyle he did not want to forfeit, John added the responsibilities that he'd hired him for in the first place. Spying became paramount among them. Not only did John want a bead on what was happening at the mines, but he wanted to keep a pulse on the town without having to spend anything but token amounts of time there.

Sylvester was the one who told him that Pam was spending time with Cutter.

John had mixed feelings about that. On one hand, it infuriated him that Cutter-and Pam-would blatantly disregard the warnings he'd given. On the other hand, the friendship had possibilities. The longer it went on and the stronger it got, the greater a bargaining tool it became. If Pam did something John didn't like, or if he wanted something from her that she was reluctant to give, he could threaten to keep her away from Maine. Likewise, the knowledge that he could slap a child-molestation charge on Cutter at any time gave him pleasure.

He didn't dwell on it, though, because within six months of Eugene's death, the bulk of his mental energy was channeled into the business. As Eugene's will had been written-with Cutter Reid no longer a part of it-John received a share of the business equal to Patricia's and Pam's. Small pieces of the pie had been left to Eugene's lawyer, his long-time accountant, and certain select friends in Timiny Cove, but the three family shares determined the power structure. Following Eugene's instructions, Pam's shares were put into trust until she turned twenty-five or married, with Patricia and John sharing discretion over her interest in the company until then. But Patricia wasn't in any condition to exercise discretion over her own interests, let alone Pam's, as John easily convinced the court. With the pa.s.sing of doc.u.ments granting him guardianship, he had full and unconditional control. The business was his to do with as he wished.

It was a heady feeling. Whether walking through the offices in Boston or the mines in Maine, he felt the power of such control. People regarded him differently. They went out of their way to please him. He didn't delude himself into thinking that they liked him any better; they knew he planned changes and were seeing to their own best interests. But whatever the cause of their deference, he liked it. Being the boss was a fine thing.

Being in control of his own destiny was even better. The dreams he had had when he was younger were reemerging and seeming more attainable by the day. The party he gave at the townhouse was a success, as were others that followed. In turn, he was asked out often. People were taking greater notice of him.

That wasn't to say he was where he wanted to be. He wasn't known much beyond Boston, and he certainly wasn't nearly as wealthy as he wished to be. While he made the occasional A-list for parties, he wanted to make it consistently, and not only in Boston, but in New York, Washington, Palm Beach, wherever he chose to go.

He could see such success happening. If he played his cards right, he could have it all. It also meant closely following a carefully devised plan. He made several immediate changes at St. George Mining. First, he moved the headquarters to a new and prestigious address in Boston's financial district. Second, in a reorganization of his staff, he promoted the most intelligent and enterprising, demoted those who were mere technicians but necessary to the functioning of the office, fired others who were either old, boring, or still mourning Eugene. Third, he hired people chosen for their creativity, daring, and connections to fill newly created posts, most notably in public relations and marketing.

Once his staff was operating satisfactorily, he formally changed the name of the business to the St. George Company and went about taking it public. It was a complicated process, involving lawyers, bankers, brokers, and large amounts of paperwork and legal maneuvering, but he'd a.n.a.lyzed the market well. Precious and semiprecious stones, of which tourmaline was one, were considered a solid investment. By the end of the first day of trading, he, Patricia, and Pam were each millionaires many times over.

With the proceeds from sales of common stock, plus the capital that the business already had at its disposal, he was finally able to begin work on what he felt was the company's future. He rented a prime piece of storefront property on Newbury Street near the Ritz, and remodeled the inside according to the advice of one of the city's most savvy interior designers. He studied the work of dozens of jewelry designers in Boston, New York, and Los Angeles. Hiring the youngest and most talented of the lot, he set up a studio over the store itself and provided them with the tourmaline and other gems and metals they'd need to design the kinds of pieces he had in mind. Well before the first of those pieces were ready for sale, he hired an advertising agency to launch a campaign designed to appeal to customers with cla.s.s.

Facets opened in May 1971, nearly eighteen months after Eugene's death, with the kind of gala champagne reception that would have driven the elder St. George to the street in a sweat. John, on the other hand, was calm, cool, and in his glory. The guest list included the best and the brightest of Boston, from society's cream to business leaders, members of the diplomatic corps, luminaries in the professions, and philanthropists. The bubbly flowed freely but was consumed with the kind of temperance to be expected of people who were self-a.s.sured and successful.

They loved the store. John spent the evening accepting praise and congratulations. His designers, attired in tuxedos and gowns, spent the evening fielding inquiries as to whether they could make a piece of jewelry like a particular one on display but with a sapphire here, a bit more gold there, a pair of diamond trilliums somewhere else. His salespeople, chosen for their good looks and poise and well tutored in every aspect of the merchandise, spent the evening wandering through the crowd smiling, answering questions, inviting people back for a more personal look at a quieter time.

Everything clicked. The store was elegant, the jewelry exquisite, the mood exclusive, all of which appealed to people who were used to the same but usually had to leave Boston to find them. John was applauded for that by more than one grateful patron. By the time the evening was over, he was sure the venture would succeed.

Sales were good in the weeks that followed. He made sure that his designers' work was traditional enough to appeal to Boston's upper crust, but he allowed them enough freedom to create pieces for the more eccentric of the chic as well. Differences between styles were subtle in some cases, more distinct in others, but nothing was radical and nothing was cheap. Facets prided itself on the quality of its product, its setting, its service, and its personnel. People were willing to pay well for the privilege of bringing home a purple velvet box with the tiny gold marquise, Facets' insignia, embedded in the upper right-hand corner.

That insignia, the product of extensive consultation with art and advertising experts, had cost a bundle. So had renovation of the store. And while John had relatively easy access to tourmaline, the cost of buying the other gemstones for his designers was high, as was his operating overhead. He was shaken by the amount of money he had spent. More quickly than he'd have imagined, the funds gathered from taking the company public were depleted, and while that increased the pressure on him to see that Facets was a success, it didn't affect his personal spending. He was the figurehead, as he saw it, the personification of Facets' clientele, and in that sense he had an image to uphold. That image involved a five-star lifestyle that mandated wearing the finest clothes, driving the newest cars, eating at the trendiest restaurants, and being seen at the poshest parties.

The bills came in, and the pressure mounted, although no one would have guessed it from the calm and confident way John carried himself. It wasn't part of his persona to look worried. Not once in any social conversation did he give the slightest suggestion that Facets was treading on shaky ground. That wasn't anyone's business but his own. Still, the pressure was there, making him tense deep down inside.

It was only natural that he should want a woman to divert his anxiety. Although his s.e.xual appet.i.te had been on hold in the months following the accident, it had returned in bits and pieces, and was back with a vengeance now.

Patricia was lost to him. She refused to see him-not that he wanted to see her either. She was a blemish on his record, a miscalculation on his part. Every time he saw how shattered she was, he remembered the cause. The accident wasn't his fault, of course. He hadn't been driving the car. Like the affair, the accident was Eugene's fault. Eugene had driven them to sleep together.

Now there were other women, strangers to him, whom he bedded. Having one woman, one night, added to the mystique of John St. George. It also kept him safe. He didn't want any woman getting close enough to interfere with his plans for the future. He didn't want any woman getting under his skin, discovering his needs, finding that he wasn't made of steel after all.

Hillary already knew that, which was one of the reasons he kept returning to her. She was privy to his past and wasn't part of the crowd he was trying to impress. She wasn't part of any crowd at all. Although she had plenty of friends, they were from diverse groups. She was an individual in that sense, which definitely fit into his plan.